


Dash Dot Dot Dot, Dash Dash Dash, Dash Dot Dash

by ItsTheDuran



Series: Dots and Dashes [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Contains Peanuts, Gen, What's a description?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsTheDuran/pseuds/ItsTheDuran
Summary: A conversation between Ortiz Morse, the Walk King, considered by many to be the worst pitcher in the league and PolkaDot Patterson, the Moist Talkers' star pitcher that's spent a whole season stuck in a peanut shell.Takes place in the middle of Season 8 of the Internet Blaseball League, during one of Morse's many unnanounced visits to Dot's place.
Relationships: Ortiz Morse & PolkaDot Patterson
Series: Dots and Dashes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977337
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	Dash Dot Dot Dot, Dash Dash Dash, Dash Dot Dash

_"PolkaDot Patterson is not a people person. As far as most people are concerned, they are barely a person person. They are only seen at Gleek Arena, almost exclusively when they're pitching. They show up exactly on time and leave as soon as possible, sometimes even while their batters are still playing. They are never seen interacting with teammates off the field, and they sure as hell don't interact with fans._

_If you want my opinion, I think they're just shy, but I know Dot would disagree._

_PolkaDot Patterson is a perfect pitcher. As far as most people are concerned, they are almost a perfect being. Their form may be perceived in as many configurations as pairs of eyes there are in the world, but it's rare to find a person who'd disagree with that assessment._

_I can think of a couple, though. I know that Dot’s not perfect, and I think they would agree."_

* * *

Patterson had been encased in that peanut shell for a quite a while. At first, Ortiz Morse found it hard not to worry about food and oxygen, but McDaniel had been stuck on one for over a season and the Crabs assured him that she was alive and... well, not kicking, or moving, or really doing anything, but living. Sometimes a ball landed on her. Morse didn't recall when his sense of normalcy truly died, but it had been long dead and buried by the time he saw them carry that giant peanut into the field on TV. It didn’t just not register as unusual, it was borderline mundane. Of course they were carrying that thing, it was obviously a player.

Morse let himself into Patterson's apartment, as he had been doing for the last few weeks. He found the now familiar oversized peanut sitting in the middle of the living room, in the same place that it had been left.

He tapped on the shell, trying to get Patterson's attention. "Hey there, Patty. Wanna chat?" He hoped that the nickname would enrage them enough to bring out an answer, and he was proven right immediately.

"Ortiz Morse." Patterson's muffled voice responded from inside the peanut. "Your presence is not appreciated."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." He pulled up a chair and sat down next to them. "How's the shelled life treating ya, buddy?"

"Skip the small talk. Who died this time?" Morse could swear there was some worry behind their aloofness, but, if there was, their voice did not betray it.

"Oh, no one, no one. I mean, Eugenia took a trip to the Shoe Thieves and brought back Lachlan, Simon went back on his stead, everyone else is fine."

"Garbage brought back Lachlan?" Patterson sounded confused.

"Yep. Pretty funny, huh?"

"No, you misunderstand. You said Garbage 'brought back' Lachlan. Who is this ‘Lachlan’ you speak of? Were they here before my trade?" Patterson asked with impressive sincerity.

"Lachlan Shelton. Nice guy, you played with him for over three seasons." Morse played along. "The donair guy?" 

"I do not recall a ‘Lachlan Shelton’, but he sounds like the kind of man who would get struck out at the start of every first inning of his blaseball career." 

"Sounds like you do recall him, then." Morse couldn't help but chuckle. "He'll probably swing by at some point. A trade's a lot to take in, even when you're returning to your old team. Especially when it looks so different from how you left it…”

"Is that all you came here to say?" Patterson interjected.

"Is that all that you wanted to hear? You have nothing to do in there!” Morse said as he knocked on the shell a couple times. “Listening to me babble can't be that much worse than the alternative!"

"Oh, believe me, Morse, it very much can be. Although I suppose I can humor you for a while. Pray tell, what tales of the outside world do you bring me?"

"Well, Jenkins has continued pitching your games. I offered to cover a few so they wouldn't have to push themselves too hard, but they, along with management, the rest of the team, my husband, and, well, everyone I mentioned this to assured me it wasn't necessary."

"A wise choice by all parties involved.” Patterson declared, with a smile they didn’t have to hide thanks to their trusty peanut. “Make sure to thank Jenkins for me."

"You could thank them yourself, you know.” Morse countered. “We roll you out to the field whenever the weatherman says the birds are up to something, we could easily roll you out of this room whenever. You don't have to spend all your time inside here." He continued before Patterson had a chance to protest. "I mean, yes inside the peanut, not inside this room."

Patterson was silent for a moment, then answered. "Nobody wants to see me, Morse. You should know this, you heard what they said after what happened to Gloom."

"Come on, Dot, you know they didn't mean it, they weren’t thinking straight and they apologized. Nobody blames you for what happened."

"They don't? I suppose I misunderstood, does 'this is all your fault' have a different meaning in Canada?" Patterson snapped back. Morse sighed. "Gloom understood, none of you do. I would never throw a game, and they never would have wanted me to."

"Trust me, Dot, I understand. I miss them too." Morse placed his hand on the peanut shell, offering the closest thing to physical contact he could muster.

"Who said anything about..." Patterson sighed. "Nevermind. Just drop the topic, will you?"

"I have to say something first." Patterson groaned in response, but Morse continued. "Just hear me out. I know how you feel, as much as you’d hate to admit it. You have a right to feel that way, and I’m sure a lot of us can relate, but you can't stay like this forever. You've always been one for retreating inside your shell, getting a physical one is way too convenient."

"Another one of your lectures is precisely what I needed. Did you think of that brilliant metaphor before you came here or was it an amazing act of improvisation?" Patterson complained.

"Listen, Dot.” Morse continued, ignoring their protests. “None of us are going to be here forever. I know I already have way too many regrets, and I think you do too. I don't want either of us to have to add any more to the list. You don't have to go hang out with people and act happy and pretend that nothing happened, not right now, maybe not ever. I'm just asking you not to get too comfortable inside that shell. It might not seem that way now, but solitude is much easier to achieve than it is to avoid in the long run." 

“Really would love to achieve solitude right about now.” Patterson mumbled.

“You’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you through this massive peanut shell you’re trapped in.” Morse lied.

Patterson groaned. "Look, I'll think about it, okay? Now would you please stop bothering me? Go take a walk, play a song, or whatever it is you do with your time instead of working on your pitching."

"Sure thing, buddy. See you tomorrow." Morse tapped the shell a couple times and began walking to the door. Before exiting, he turned back around. "Oh, I almost forgot to mention, I pitched a no-hitter against the Breath Mints! I know you probably have a lot of those, but it’s a huge achievement for a washed up old man like me, isn’t it?” Morse bragged, knowing full well that he was the second pitcher in ILB history to pitch one.

"You pitched a WHAT?!" Patterson shouted. "You are joking, aren't you?" They received no reply. "Morse? Come back here and admit you’re lying! Morse!"

PolkaDot Patterson kept screaming in vain, Ortiz Morse was long gone.

* * *

_“An octopus person, a mass of limbs made of mostly arms and fingers, a vague human-like shape surrounded by a mysterious, harmful aura. I’ve heard PolkaDot Patterson described a hundred different ways. If you ask me, they just look like your average young pitcher with more talent than sense. Not much unlike I once was, a long time ago."_

  
  


_"...What? They say that my pitching has always sucked? That comparing myself to them is not just an insult to the splort, but to existence itself? Heh, well, I guess I can’t say I disagree.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Thanks for reading, or at least scrolling all the way down here. Here you can learn more about this genius piece of writing and the thought process of the auteur that crafted it.
> 
> I decided to write a thing about the best picher in Blaseball and his teammate, PolkaDot Patterson. My take on these characters is slightly less weird than average. Among other things, I let Morse speak regular English. You can imagine Dot being fluent in Morse code if you'd prefer, they probably speak every language.
> 
> Originally I was gonna throw in some lines about Morse's retirement, but the man refuses to go into the shadows like he refuses to throw strikes (and I love him for it). So that's why it doesn't end up coming together as gracefully as it could have.
> 
> Extra note: If you're confused about the Gloom thing, Workman Gloom was beaned in extra innings in a game against Jaylen that Patterson was pitching, which is what ended up causing their incineration later down the line.


End file.
